


Red And White

by Fynx



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Poisoning, Rape, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 17:05:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15490608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fynx/pseuds/Fynx
Summary: Ramsay finds out that Domeric looks prettiest in red and white.





	Red And White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [villaindecay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/villaindecay/gifts).



His brother counted the same number of years as Domeric himself did. This was where their similarities began, yet it was where they ended as well. Where Domeric was quiet and restrained, Ramsay seemed to be loud and boisterous. Domeric could read and write and count; Ramsay struggled with spelling his name, much less reading anything at all. Their different upbringing was never more pronounced than when they sat their horses. Domeric owned a beautiful chestnut-red mare sired by a true Dornish sand steed, with shiny fur and a swift gait, and he sat her as if her body and his body were one; Ramsay owned no ride but a small light-gray mule, with crooked teeth and a hateful expression in its beady eyes. They both looked like their father, this was true, but each in his own way. Domeric had Lord Bolton's slim stature, his fine, silky hair, porcelain skin, and elegant lips, all features which the kitchen maids in the Dreadfort used to titter about, which he was rather aware of. Ramsay... well, he was tall, like their lord father, and he had his eyes; not only their color, but their expression as well.

 

Sometimes, this expression frightened Domeric. He had nothing to fear from his father or his brother, this he knew, and he was not easily frightened in general. He was a man grown, almost eighteen years old, and nothing _truly_ scared him anymore, not in the way stories of grumpkins had done many years back. And yet... yet... that stare with its light gray, a gray as heavy as the silence of corpses, could send chills over his back without a doubt. The thought made Domeric shift on his horse. He threw a look over his shoulder towards his brother – oh, his half-brother, but what difference did that make in the end – whose mule was trotting behind him, and smiled at him in a way which he hoped hid all these unpleasant thoughts.

 

 

While Domeric was musing on the differences between them, Ramsay Snow was concerned with a sensation that had occupied a part of his mind for the last fortnight, ever since Domeric bloody Bolton had arrived at his doorstep: this highborn prick was pretty. Not as pretty as the bitches down in the village, of course. Not as pretty as his pretty, pretty Penelope, with her red hair and white skin and pretty lips, who had not been as pretty anymore after Ramsay had been done with her. Still. Still. Domeric was pretty. Pretty enough that Ramsay wanted to do things to him. Things that he had done to Penelope too. And worse things. Domeric was special. Ramsay could see that. The whole world could see that. He was a man grown, but he was pretty like a bitch and he had really red lips, and really white skin. He was the North. He was snow and the god trees that used to frighten Ramsay when he had been younger. And he was the old Bolton's heir. That was special. Very special. Ramsay loathed him. He would have loathed every trueborn child of Roose Bolton, he suspected, but he loathed Domeric most of all of these non-existent children. Domeric was such a perfect image of what a young lordling should be. He dressed well, he had such fine clothes. He rode his pretty horse as if he had born on its back. He had shown Ramsay how to spell letters, awfully elegant letters. He could do his numbers. He had brought his harp and he had played a song and Ramsay had loathed him for it, for every note he played, every sound he ripped out of the instrument. He had all that belonged to Ramsay, in truth, and he was all Ramsay should be, should have been born to be, should have given by the world, by his father, and instead Domeric had received _everything_ , and Ramsay nothing.

 

It was unfair and if there was one thing Ramsay liked, it was justice. He would make it fair.

 

Worst of all, though, the worst of all of what Domeric was, and the reason Ramsay loathed him far above anyone else he had ever met, was this: he regarded Ramsay warmly, with just the slightest hint of unease, from beneath his pretty lashes. The fool seemed to be willing to trust Ramsay. He trusted Ramsay more than his own bitch mother ever had, and his expression, when it was warm like this, warm like a hearth in deep winter snows... By the gods, it made Ramsay want to smash in his warm expression until he could feel red blood on his knuckles and hear the sound of gleaming teeth breaking and white bones shattering.

 

 

 

They returned from their hunt successful, and Domeric was pleased for it. Ramsay, he had found out numerous times during his stay with his brother – half-brother, he chided himself half-heartedly – had many hidden talents. Hunting was one of them. They brought home a pair of hares and a fat pheasant, and Ramsay cooked them over the spit. It was going to be their last supper together, and Domeric was sad for it to be so. He would've invited Ramsay to come with him to the Dreadfort, if their father would only permit it, _and_ if he could get over the unease he still felt at the sight of Ramsay. But there would be other visits. He was young still, and his father in prime condition, and it would be many more years until Domeric would rule the Dreadfort – until he would be too occupied with his duties to forget visiting his only sibling.

 

Ramsay put a mixture of herbs on the meat while he turned the spit. “It's for taste,” he told Domeric when he inquired what they were for. “Makes it sweet and juicy.” Then he laughed, and albeit Domeric had not understood the joke, he laughed along with Ramsay. When Ramsay handed him his share of the food, it turned out to be very sweet indeed, and Domeric could barely hide the ravenous hunger that made him devour the hare. He looked up at Ramsay, who had taken a few bites out of the bird. His gray eyes were trained intently on Domeric, and suddenly he felt a chill despite the warmth of the hut. Ramsay grinned at him. Meat juice dripped down his chin. Domeric raised an eyebrow, and then he began to rise to his feet. He had no idea why, but suddenly, his entire body urged him to leave this place. Something about Ramsay's smile, and the sweetness of the meat, and the thundering sound of his heart in his own ears did not feel right. “Ramsay, I-” he began, trying to explain what he could not properly explain to himself, but Ramsay cut him off. His brother had risen too, the very same moment Domeric had stood up, and was pressing a hand to his mouth now. Domeric laid a hand on Ramsay's fleshy arm, trying to push him away, but Ramsay was taller and stronger than him, he knew with a certainty that frightened him. If Ramsay wanted to kill him, he could, but surely he wouldn't – everyone knew where he was, and his father would hunt Ramsay down and have him hanged for such a crime, and – but the gleam in gray eyes was murderous.

 

 

Maybe Domeric was beginning to understand where he was. It did not matter. Ramsay pushed harder, until he could feel Domeric's breathing begin to heave, the flesh of his nose digging into his hand. Domeric tried to fight, but he was no match to Ramsay. Another reason why Ramsay needed to take his place. Domeric did not deserve to be the trueborn heir. Not when Ramsay was so much stronger. He pushed harder, and his strength toppled Domeric. He fell backwards, over a low chair, until he lay on his back, arms on his side. Ramsay followed him to the ground and held him firmly, although the fall had apparently woken Domeric's spirits. He began to struggle. Ramsay loved this part the best. When they struggled. When they still thought they had a chance...

 

He pulled out a dagger. He could not hurt precious Lord Bolton's son. Not like this. He had to be – more secretive – but he had done it. Domeric Bolton would die in two moons' turns, he simply did not know it yet. The poison Ramsay had put onto the hare was slow, but it was strong, and because Domeric was weak, it would get to him. No, he could not hurt Lord Bolton's son, but he could make sure he did not struggle. He pushed the dagger's edge to Domeric's neck. “Don't fucking fight, bastard,” he said, and he could feel several thrills rushing through his blood as he did so. Yes. This was it. Domeric was the bastard, and Ramsay was the trueborn son. The heir. Oh, yes. _Yes_. He could take it all from Domeric. All that was supposed to be Ramsay's. His title, his life, even _this_... “I'll kill you.”

 

Domeric still thrashed around, and then he regarded Ramsay warily, and he seemed to see something in his eyes. Maybe that Ramsay was not bluffing. He was not. He wanted this from Domeric, right now, and he was prepared to punish him if he did not give it to him. Then, after a second that felt much longer, Domeric stilled. Only his fingers still moved, but barely so. Ramsay noticed that he had drawn blood; a few droplets were running along the dagger's edge, collecting at the hilt before they hit Domeric's pretty skin. He grinned and kept the dagger there while he moved his other hand from Domeric's mouth to his breeches.

 

This gave Domeric the ability to speak again. “What is the meaning of this, brother,” he said, voice quivering slightly, in that awful highborn way of his. Ramsay fought the urge to push the dagger higher into his neck and gritted his teeth.

 

“You're such a damn fool,” he said instead, fumbling with his breeches until he could open them far enough to take out his prick. “But I should not be surprised.” He grinned again. “It is well-known that you bastards are fools without measure.” Ramsay licked his lips. His hand wandered to open Domeric's breeches too.

 

Domeric, fool that he proved to be, began to struggle again as his eyes widened in understanding. Ramsay pushed the dagger, and more blood flowed out of the porcelain-white neck, drops splattering on the skin in wild shapes. It made a lovely image, and now Domeric really was pretty, and – yes, prettier than the village bitches, Ramsay conceded, with blood covering his marble skin. He laughed, delighted, and flung the dagger away. They fought for a bit, hands and feet and desperation against exhilaration, but exhilaration always won, Ramsay knew. Soon, he had Domeric pinned beneath him, with his stomach on the ground, and he was binding his hands together with cheap rope until they were chafing red. Domeric said something, but Ramsay had stopped listening to his words a while ago. Just some prattling from a bastard, nothing he, Ramsay Bolton, needed to concern himself with.

 

He put his lips onto the skin stretching over Domeric's neck, where his pulse hammered away, and pursed them in an imitation of a kiss. Like this, he could feel the poison making its way through his brother's body, further with each pump of his heart. It wasn't really Ramsay's fault; oh, he had put the poison on Domeric's food, but really, Domeric had eaten it, and now his heart was spreading it throughout his body. Ramsay had merely opened a gate for Domeric, but Domeric was walking through it all by his own. He detached his lips to finally pull down Domeric's breeches and focus on that part of him. His upper body was covered with his shirt, and Ramsay had no desire to unclothe this part of him. It was not necessary, not for what he was doing.

 

Domeric's thighs were as milky white as his neck. Ramsay could hear Domeric talking still; something like “stop it”. His hand grabbed one of Domeric's thighs and squeezed the flesh until red marks remained. “My father-” Domeric began, and Ramsay growled; who did this bastard think he was, talking of their father as if he only belonged to him? He pushed Domeric forward angrily until his head met the ground with a violent thud. “Shut your mouth,” Ramsay snarled and brought his hand back to Domeric's backside, “you don't talk to your lord like that.” The power he felt at speaking these words made his blood sing with excitement.

 

Ramsay took his prick into his hand and brought it to hardness with a few firm strokes, although it did not need much. The sight before him was alluring, and the rush of power did the rest. He resumed squeezing Domeric's thigh, and then he entered him abruptly. Somewhere far away, Domeric was screaming, but Ramsay could not hear it over the deafening sound of the pleasure throbbing through his veins. That – that would show the bastard, he thought, would put him in his rightful place. Beneath Ramsay Bolton. Always, always beneath Ramsay... He suddenly felt parched, and licked his lips, and pressed deeper into his brother, and agonizing desire flooded him. All the gods he knew, the old and the new, seemed to flow through him with every push and every twitch of Domeric around him. Soon, Ramsay was panting, and Domeric's screams sounded like the most beautiful song; how nice it was that his brother could sing as prettily as he looked. Ramsay leaned over him again. He wanted to hear more of this song, so he pushed in deeper than before and dug in his teeth at Domeric's neck again, until an angry red mark showed itself on the skin. Red and white, red and white, red and white everywhere... Domeric made a choked, wet gasp before he screamed again, hoarse this time.

 

“I have you,” Ramsay trilled. His own voice was getting hoarse too, he noted; he was panting like a dog. Yes, he had Domeric. He had all of Domeric now, and he would have all of what he had once the poison finished its work. This thought along with the tightness around his prick made him dizzy. He moaned, a soundless noise, before he came, suddenly and violently, inside of his brother. Ramsay lost himself in his pleasure, and everything turned white in front of his eyes, with red spots dancing in his vision.

 

An elbow took him, right beneath the chin, and pain exploded. Ramsay cursed, but Domeric had used his distraction to scramble free, even with his hands bound. He staggered to his feet. A pathetic picture, Ramsay thought. His breeches were pulled down and hung between his knees, his hands were still bound, his hair was dishevelled, and his face was covered in dried tear streaks. Ramsay grinned slowly, sated and pleased as he was. The only thing he didn't like about this picture was the gleam in Domeric's eyes; a gleam that spoke of something yet unbroken, something that Ramsay could never take from him, even if he took all else. It made Ramsay angry, but he was far too content right now to let his anger bother him. It would, no doubt, in half an hour; but not right now.

 

“I will kill you,” Domeric threatened with a measured calmness in his voice that was more than Ramsay expected from him.

 

He shrugged. “You wish to tell our father of what you just let happen? Be my guest.”

 

Domeric's fair face darkened into a splotched red as shame seemed to creep upon him. Ramsay liked this look on him much better; this mixture of anger, shame, hatred, and the will to throttle him in an instant. He smiled at Domeric. For a moment, the world was frozen in place, and there were a thousand possibilities of what might happen in the future. All of them unfolded in front of Ramsay, a thousand lives in which he would win, and a thousand lives in which he could lose, and even some few in which both Ramsay and Domeric would win.

 

Then, Domeric decided their future. He spat on the ground in front of Ramsay, took his coat, and left.

 

When Roose Bolton's men picked Ramsay up three moons later and he arrived in the great hall of the Dreadfort, he understood why he had always liked red and white on his brother. The Boltons' color was pink, which was nothing but red and white mixed together, after all, and Domeric had looked prettiest wearing the color of Ramsay's house.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this prompt! :D Thank you!  
> No outside beta. Hope this is still readable.


End file.
